


Someone to stay

by fandammit



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-23 17:37:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21324067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandammit/pseuds/fandammit
Summary: She’s Kimiko and she’s mon coeur and she’s holding on tightly to his hand; the rest of the world fades away.Missing moments through season one, Frenchie's POV.
Relationships: The Female | Kimiko/The Frenchman
Comments: 18
Kudos: 188





	1. Chapter 1

Even in his dreams, he can’t quite picture home any more.

That he spent so many years of his life running back to a place he can’t even imagine any more hurts too much to think about, so now he mostly tries not to

The first time he’d even spoken about home out loud to anyone since -- well, ever -- was staring at Kimiko before she was Kimiko. Back when she was just a scared, feral outline of a person that he’d somehow wanted to protect anyway.

There’s so much about home that hurts. So much about who he is that hurts.

But it all hurts so much less when he’s with her.

* * *

She keeps one hand wrapped around his all the way home from Mesmer’s house, the other clutching one of the pictures she’d drawn of her last memory of home.

There are at least a hundred of the exact same drawing back at the safe house, but he’d made sure to grab the one she’d drawn at Mesmer’s house and give it back to her. It’s a milestone for the two of them, or a talisman, perhaps, to ward against the people they were meant to become.

She sees him looking at the paper in her hands and after a short moment of contemplation, she offers it to him. He tilts his head at her, his eyebrows drawing close to ask _are you sure?_

She gives him a long look, her eyes searching his, before she simply pushes it into his other hand and settles closer to him, her eyes turning out towards the window and back towards some faraway memory.

He’s never been what you call sentimental -- he has no tangible memories from childhood that aren’t scars, and a lifetime of being on the move means that everything he owns can be packed in a duffle, or bought at the newest Goodwill. But he already knows that this will now become his most prized possession. A symbol made real -- the turning point when she stopped being _the girl_ or_ petite lazarus_ or even just _her_ and crystallized into Kimiko.

She’s still mon coeur, of course. He does not think he could stop himself now. Thinks he’d have to know where it had all started to figure out how to stop, but doesn’t know either.

It doesn’t matter, anyhow. She’s _Kimiko_ and she’s_ mon coeur_ and she’s holding on tightly to his hand; the rest of the world fades away.

* * *

She goes straight to couch when they get back to the safehouse and turns on the TV. He watches as she pulls her knees up close to her chest and wraps her arms around them, the screen flickering through images of sharks and reefs.

He watches her as closely as she watches the TV -- which is to say, he’s really just looking at her as his mind travels down other roads. He can hear M.M. rearranging files on the table behind him as he does, then feels the table sag a bit as the larger man sets himself down next to him.

“You know Butcher’s gonna offer to trade her to the feds if it helps bring down Vought,” M.M. murmurs. “And you know as well as I do that it would.”

Hot anger flashes through him at the thought, and he turns towards M.M., his fists clenched at his side.

“She’s not some kind of -- of -- puzzle piece or stray collateral to be given and traded,” he hisses, though the pit of stomach roils with fear even as he says it. He has no illusions about what Monsieur Charcuter will do for his personal vendetta.

“We’re all collateral to Butcher,” M.M. says wearily, and not for the first time he wonders why the other man ever agreed to come back to them. “Look, Frenchie, all I’m saying is that you'll have to prove to Butcher that she’s more valuable to us than she would be to Feds.”

He stares at M.M, hating that he’s right, hating himself more for immediately trying to quantify just what Kimiko could do for them. He knows she would be invaluable to them. He has a talent for killing and weapons, M.M. has the planning and the brains, Butcher is ruthlessness and drive personified and little Hughie is...well, he’s somewhat like a mascot, at times, but one who has shown himself to be resourceful when necessary.

But Kimiko is pure, Supe strength -- the one thing they need, and the one thing they’re missing in their fight against the Supes.

“She just want to go home,” he finally says, shaking his head. “She should get that chance.”

M.M. sighs and shakes his head.

“Ok, man,” he says, pushing himself off the edge of the table and going back to fiddle with his files on the table. “But you know I’m right about Butcher.”

* * *

If he were Monsieur Charcuter, he wouldn’t give her a choice; he would simply tell her she needed to join the team or get ready to be shipped over to the Feds.

If he were M.M, he would try to reason with her, explain why joining the team is her best option in a finely drafted presentation with graphs and charts and her own personal file.

If he were Hughie, well, he’d probably tell Kimiko that he was going to take her back home, and then get them both killed or captured -- by the Supes, by the Feds or by Charcuter himself -- trying to get her there.

But he can only be himself, and so he gives Kimiko what he’s always wanted, and what he knows she deserves: a choice.

He means it when he tells her that they could use her help in stopping Vought, but he means it just as much when he tells her that he’s ready to go to the airport at a moment’s notice. He’s been burned and started over so many times in his life; what’s one more?

He tries to read her expression, to see if she’s struggling to make the choice, what he should prepare himself for.

But it’s a moment that’s too short to grasp, and in the next, she reaches over to take his hand and settles back into the couch cushions. Their clasped hands lay loosely between them, and even though her attention’s back on the TV, he can almost feel the words as if she’d shouted them out loud.

_I choose you._

Everything about her movements, her demeanor, is casual and easy; it’s as if she hasn’t just altered the course of her life with this one choice. As if there hadn’t even been a choice, really.

He understands the feeling. Choosing Kimiko hadn’t really been much of a choice for him, either.

* * *

“I have to go,” Hughie stutters out, looking lost and little despite the way he towers, that same frightened look on his face from when they'd first met.

“Hughie, you can’t go alone,” M.M. says, reaching a hand out to stop him. That M.M. has any kindness left over to distribute even as he's getting ready to head to his own family is how he knows that M.M. really might be too good to be on their team.

“No, he said --." Hughie stops and shakes his head. "A-Train said that none of my friends can come with me. I have to -- I can’t -- he’ll kill my dad if I don’t come alone.”

"He'll kill both of ya if you do," Butcher snarls from somewhere across the room, and he isn't sure whether Monsieur Charcuter is angry at A-Train, Hughie, Mesmer or just life in general.

He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder and turns to face Kimiko, who looks at him for a moment then tilts her head in Hughie's direction.

He looks back at her, then over at Hughie, who's now arguing with Monsieur Charcuter.

"You're sure?" He asks, even though what he actually wants to say is _it's dangerous_ and _it might not be a good idea_ and _please don't_. But he knows all those words are more for him than her anyway, and she didn't choose to stay behind just so he could hold her back.

She nods and reaches out her hand to wrap it around his, squeezing once before letting go and gesturing towards the center of the room where Hughie and Butcher are squaring off against one another.

"Kimiko will go with you," he calls across the room, taking advantage of a lull between Hughie and Butcher's shouts.

It's a rare moment where he manages to catch Monsieur Charcuter completely off guard.

“What now?” the other man snaps, turning to face them both.

“Kimiko,” he repeats, stepping aside and gesturing at her. “She said she’ll go with petite Hughie.”

Hughie blinks rapidly, his eyebrows coming together in the center of his forehead in confusion.

“You know you can’t come, Frenchie. A-Train would recognize you.”

He nods.

“I do not need to go, you know this, petite Hughie. Kimiko can protect you just as well as I can -- better even.”

Hughie looks like he wants to argue, but he ends up just nodding, his hesitation fading out into that nervous, jumpy energy again as he looks down at his phone and back towards the door.

“Ok, that works for me.”

“Well it don’t fuckin’ work for me, does it?” Butcher growls, moving himself between Hughie and the door as he glares at Frenchie. “Sending that feral girl out into the world without you to control her is about as stupid a fuckin’ idea as it was to go to Mesmer for help.”

An ugly sort of anger floods his veins, and he steps towards the larger man at the center of the room, his skin hot with rage.

“Her name,” he grounds out, advancing on Butcher, “is Kimiko, and she is not feral or a girl, and she does not need me -- or anyone here --,” he rounds on the room and scowls at everyone, “to control her.”

He feels Kimiko’s hand in his, small and soft, but rooting him in place all the same.

He turns back to look at her and she squeezes his hand before letting go and moving towards the center of the room. She stops in front of Butcher and stares at him -- there’s no tension in her stance, no aggressiveness in her eyes -- just the impression that she’s saying _I’m going with Hughie, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me._

Butcher, to his credit -- or maybe because he’s just a crazy motherfucker -- doesn’t look fazed or worried; if anything, there’s something like respect in his expression.

She walks past Butcher and over to where Hughie is standing by the door, then looks back at him, her head tilted in his direction.

He moves towards her, glaring at Butcher as he walks past, and stops in front of where she and Hughie are standing.

“So, what is the plan, petite Hughie?” He asks, looking over at where the other man in standing, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet.

Hughie takes a deep breath and chews on his lip.

“Ok, so, I need to make sure my dad gets out of there safely.” He glances at Kimiko. “There’s a stoop next to our apartment where people hang out all the time -- Kimiko can just, you know, hang out there and once she sees my dad come out, run up and, uh, you know.” He gives a short huff of a laugh. “Save my ass.”

Kimiko looks at him, then down at her hands, flexing them before she looks back over at Hughie, her eyebrow slightly raised.

“Ah,” he says after a moment, before turning to Hughie. “And do you want her to, ah, you know, kill A-Train?”

Hughie gives him a wide-eyed look.

“God, no, no, of course not.” He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “No, that’d be -- .” He shakes his head. “No, we just need to slow him down so we can get out of there and he can’t come after us.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding in agreement with Hughie. “So break both his legs, then.” He looks over at Kimiko, who bounces on the balls of her feet as she nods in agreement.

Hughie puts his hands out in front of him.

“I don’t really think we need to break both of them, you know?” He looks back and forth between Kimiko and Frenchie. “Just, uh, one, right? One should do it.”

Frenchie shrugs, then looks over at Kimiko.

“Best to make it a good break then, mon coeur.” He skips over to the far wall and picks up a broken pipe that laying on top of a windowsill. “This should make it so it isn’t too much work or too bloody for you.”

She takes the pipe from him and hefts in her hand, then nods at him.

He reaches out and puts his hands on her shoulders, bending down to look her in the eyes.

“Be careful, mon coeur.”

She nods, then, after a brief moment’s hesitation, picks up his hand and places it against her cheek, leaning her head into it.

He smiles at her, his thumb brushing against the curve of her cheekbone before she gives his hand one final squeeze and follows Hughie out the door.

“You two are the weirdest fuckin’ couple I’ve ever seen,” Butcher says as soon as the door closes behind Hughie and Kimiko.

“Yeah, but you gotta admit,” M.M. calls out from the other end of the room where he’s packing up his stuff. “It actually kind of makes sense.”

And even Monsieur Charcuter doesn’t have anything to say against that.


	2. Chapter 2

“So lemme get this straight,” Butcher says, looking back and forth between him and Kimiko. “The two of you are gonna go out and risk blowin’ our cover, just so's you can buy your little girlfriend a pretty new outfit?” 

“Kimiko,” he replies, elongating her name, “can’t just keep wearing my clothes."

"And why the fuck not? I don't hear her complaining about 'em." 

He scowls. Never before has he wanted to punch Monsieur Charcuter the way he does right now. 

"She deserves something of her own.” 

“And, uh, besides,” Hughie jumps in as he puts his phone down and stands up from the bed. “A-Train saw her in that outfit. She’s more at risk blowing our cover wearing it than she is going out and getting new clothes.” 

He shoots Hughie a surprised look, then glances over at Kimiko, who's also looking over at Hughie with something almost like a smile on her lips. 

"He's got a point, you know," M.M. calls out from the other side of the crowded room. 

Butcher glares at all four of them one by one, but then must decide it isn't worth putting his foot down on this one. 

"Do what you want, but if you two get caught, I'm not bailing your asses out."

Butcher turns away from them and goes to sit at the desk in the corner of the room, muttering curses under his breath. 

He'll be in a foul mood for the whole night most likely, but Frenchie doesn't care -- he'd been planning to take Kimiko shopping before everything went to shit, and he's glad that even if everything is fucked, she'll still be able to have something that's all for her. 

"Ready, mon coeur?" He asks, sweeping an arm towards the door. 

"Hold on a tick," Butcher barks out from the corner of the room. "Hughie, give her your hoodie to wear. Frenchie, put yours back on." He rolls his eyes at their blank looks. "That yellow fucking hoodie's kind of a statement, yeah? Better for you both if she's not wearing the exact same outfit as when she shattered a fuckin' Supe's leg." 

It's as much admission as he's going to get from Butcher that getting new clothes for Kimiko is a good idea, so he doesn't say anything as he waits for Kimiko to shrug out of his hoodie and put on Hughie's. 

If his was big on her, then she's practically swimming in Hughie's. The ends reach almost down to her knees, and she has to fold the cuffs three times to get them to stay above her wrists. 

"It's only for a little while, mon coeur," he says once they're outside of the stuffy hotel room. She's looking glumly at the hoodie she's wearing and sneaking glances at his. "We can get you one that fits while we're out." 

But she just shakes her head at that and looks at his jacket, then shyly up at him. 

"Oh," he says after a moment. "You like this one?" 

She lifts her shoulder in a half shrug, her hand waving in his direction, then coming down to rest on the fabric of his jacket somewhere above his heart. 

_I like that it's yours_, he thinks he can hear her saying. Or perhaps hopes she is. 

"It's yours, mon coeur," he says, putting his hand over hers. By the way she smiles, he doesn't think the double meaning is lost on her. 

* * *

She picks out two pairs of jeans, three shirts, a soft pair of shorts he assumes are meant for sleeping and a pair of shoes in record time, catching his eye and smiling every time she picks out a new item. It makes him wonder how long she's been wanting to do something like this -- something just for herself and for her to own. 

He decides to take her again once they're safe, ignoring the part of him that wonders if that'll ever come again. 

They're heading back toward the check out lines when he sees her slow down, her eyes widening at the wide display of nail polish. 

He stops and smiles at her. 

"Get something, mon coeur." He nods towards the display. "We may not get another chance like this again for quite some time." 

She looks furtively around the store, then gives him a close lipped smile that’s gone almost as quickly as it appears. It’s as if she’s wary of revealing too much to anyone that isn’t him. She practically skips over to the long rows of nail polish and brushes her hands over the rainbow of colors, fingertips flitting over the blues and greens, gentle as a butterfly alighting on a flower. 

After a few minutes, she comes back with two bottles in her hands -- one orange-red, the other a deep, rich purple he'd called plum.

She lifts up the orange-red in front of her, showing it to him, then resting it over her heart. 

“This is your favorite color?” He asks. 

She nods. 

“Ah,” he says, storing that fact away for himself before reaching out and tapping the plum colored bottle. "And you know -- this one is my favorite color." 

She glances down at it, then back up at him, a questioning look in her eyes. 

He nods at her. 

“Truly, it is.” 

She beams at him, and all he can think in that moment is how he wishes he could bottle up the delighted look in her eyes and uncap it for himself on dark and dreary days. 

* * *

They walk back slowly to the hotel, their hoods drawn low against their foreheads. He's carrying their bag of goodies in one hand, his other arm hanging loose at his side, brushing up against Kimiko’s. 

The streets are relatively empty -- it's the middle of the work day and the sky is threateningly gray -- so he doesn’t pay attention to the fact that they’re taking up most of the sidewalk. 

So it’s on him when an impatient pedestrian rushes between them, knocking his shoulder into him and Kimiko just hard enough that it seems deliberate, then speeding away. 

It startles her, the movement causing the wide-eyed wonder to slip from her face, her expression retreating into something more ferocious as she narrows her eyes at the man now a few feet ahead of her. 

He steps smoothly in front of her just as she starts to go into a crouch and drops the bag to the side of him. His hands are extended out in front of him, but he makes sure not to touch her. 

“Mon coeur,” he says, leaning to the side to take up her line of sight. He waits until she drags her eyes away from where she’s looking beyond him and gives her a gentle smile when she finally meets his gaze. “Mon coeur, it’s ok.” 

She’s breathing hard, her weight shifting from one foot to another. The ferocious look is gone from her eyes though, replaced by something closer to confusion and fear, and his heart breaks a little at the sight of it. 

“We’re ok,” he says with a smile, slowly putting his hands out and resting them on her shoulders. “Everything is ok, mon coeur.” 

Her breathing slows as she straightens back out, and she wraps her hands around his for a moment before she nods at him. 

He gives her shoulders a squeeze before he lets go, then bends down to pick up their Target bag. She still seems hesitant to go, so he drapes an arm over her shoulders and gently tugs her forward. 

They walk in comfortable silence for a while, her Target bag looped around one of his arms, his other resting loosely along the line of her shoulders. 

To anyone else watching them, they probably look like some random couple coming back from running errands. Perhaps they're going home to make dinner together -- she'll cut the onions, he will make the sauce, they'll both do the dishes. He lets himself live inside that fantasy for a moment, pretending that they're heading back to a modest two bedroom apartment with a balcony for him to smoke on (because she doesn't like him to smoke in the apartment), rather than two fugitives walking back to a dingy, crowded hotel room. 

Speaking of --

"Mon coeur, you know this hotel room, it, ah --." He fiddles with the handles on the bag before continuing. "Well, there are only two beds and five of us, no?" She nods, waiting for him to continue. "Well, Monsieur Charcuter will sleep on the extra cot, he has said this already. Which leaves the four of us with two beds between us." 

She doesn't slow her step or vary her movements as what he's asking her becomes clear, just leans slightly into him and dips her head down to rest briefly on his shoulder. 

He takes a deep breath and nods at her, turning his head to catch her eye. 

"And this is ok with you? I can sleep on the floor, mon coeur. This is nothing to me." 

She shakes her head; then, after a moment’s hesitation, she lifts her hand up to where his is dangling off her shoulder and twines her fingers with his. 

It’s the most overtly affectionate gesture she’s made in public, and the act of it causes warmth to unfold in his chest and seep down through his fingers. He smiles down at her, pressing his fingertips into the indentations between her knuckles. 

Maybe they aren’t heading back to their modest two bedroom apartment to make dinner together, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re more than just two fugitives who are on the run. 

* * *

She falls asleep before him. 

Her hands are tucked beneath her head, and her knees are pulled up towards her chest. She remains so still that eventually he stops what he’s doing and sits and watches her just to make sure he can detect the rise and fall of her breathing. 

He wonders if she’s worried about sharing the bed with him after all, and if he should just go ahead and grab a pillow to sleep on the floor. But then he studies the way she’s wrapped in on herself, how she hovers just on the edge of the bed -- as if she’s trying to take as little space as possible. 

It dawns on him then that she’s not trying to get away from him -- she’s trying to remain as invisible and unnoticed as possible. That she’s somehow trained herself to do so even in her sleep cracks open his chest and makes him want to both wrap himself around her and throw open the doors to find the fuckers who did this to her. 

“So, the staring at her while she sleeps thing has gone from almost sweet to definitely creepy, Frenchie,” M.M. murmurs from somewhere behind him. 

He turns and stares at M.M., who’s laying down with his head propped up, scrolling through his phone. 

“It’s not right -- what those fuckers did to her.” He shakes his head and glances over at Kimiko before turning to face M.M. “I’d rip them apart if I found them.” 

“Pretty sure your girlfriend could do a better job of that than you could.” 

He gives a small smile at the other man, then nods. 

“Of course you’d find that charming,” M.M. says with a sardonic shake of his head. He sets his phone down on his chest and motions towards Kimiko’s sleeping figure. “You sure you’re ok to sleep next to her?” 

He nods, almost offended that the other man even asked. 

“I asked her earlier, of course.” 

But M.M. shakes his head. 

“No, Frenchie, I mean --.” He raises an eyebrow. “Like, are you safe sleeping next to her?” 

Now he is definitely offended. 

“She would never hurt me.” 

M.M. shakes his head. 

“She would never _mean_ to hurt you, that I believe.” He gives a small half shrug. “But you know your girl’s got problems.” 

It bothers him the way M.M. doesn’t say her name -- like she’s not really a person, just an outline of one. 

An argument for another day, though. Because right now all he says is -- 

“She wouldn’t hurt me.” 

M.M. sighs and shakes his head. 

“Alright, man. But you should know that I’m going to take advantage of my right to say _I told you so_ if you wake me up in the middle of the night and need me to patch up your fucking stomach because you accidentally brushed up against her when you didn’t mean to and she freaked the fuck out.”

* * *

He’s always been a light sleeper, so he wakes up as soon as he feels Kimiko bolt upwards in bed. 

“Mon coeur?” He asks, sitting up. He’s still half-asleep and slow to process the world around him slowly, which is the only reason he reaches out to touch her shoulder while she’s still turned away from him. 

Her reaction is immediate. She’s turned around and facing him, crouched on all fours so fast that he thinks she must have a chance at competing for the title of fastest Supe. 

There’s a snarl on her face that renders it near unrecognizable in the pre-dawn light; he can tell by her expression that while she’s looking at him, she isn’t really seeing him. 

She climbs on top of him, pinning him to the bed with her legs. She lifts her hands above her, fingers pointing straight down at him. He shoots his hands up and grabs her wrists, his grip firm without being crushing. 

“Mon coeur, it’s me.” 

Her gaze falters, the snarl fading into a scowl. 

“Kimiko,” he says softly. “It’s ok.” 

At the sound of her name, she blinks, her hands going slack in his grip. She takes a deep breath and shakes her head -- once, twice -- then closes her eyes. When she opens them, her eyes are clear, her mouth slack. 

She stares down at him, really taking him in for the first time since she woke up. Then, her eyes go wide, trained on him long enough for him to see horror and shame seep into her expression. 

She scrambles backwards off of him and drops to the floor. He quickly follows her, but still too slow to see anything but her feet disappearing underneath the bed. 

He steps quietly over to the side and lowers himself down. The space between the side of the bed and the wall is just barely wide enough for him to lay flat on his stomach and turn his head to face her. 

She’s laying with her arms crushed beneath her chest with her face turned away from him, taking quick, panicked breaths that are shallow and shaky at the edges 

He doesn’t reach out for her; instead, he scoots closer to the edge of the bed, focusing on making his voice as gentle and soothing as possible. 

“It’s ok. Everything is ok.” 

She takes another tremulous breath and shakes her head. Her breathing is so shallow now that he’s afraid she’ll pass out. 

“Mon coeur, look at me please?” She doesn’t move, and now that his eyes have adjusted to the dark, he can see that she’s trembling. 

“Please, mon coeur?” He repeats. “Please.” 

The last word is pleading, desperate almost, and after a long, agonizing moment, she finally turns her head to face him. 

There are tears running down her face, and her eyes are filled with a self-loathing that is as familiar as it is unwarranted. 

He slowly brings his hand up to his side, the palm out facing her. Slowly, by inches and centimeters, he brings it up to her face and rests it gently against her cheek. 

Her expression crumples as she closes her eyes, the tears falling fast onto the floor beneath her. 

He brushes his thumb against the curve of her cheekbone, and though the tears continue to fall, he’s at least relieved to see her breathing slow down and even out a bit. 

“It’s ok, mon coeur. I’m ok.” He brushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “We’re ok.” 

She takes a deep, shuddering breath before she opens her eyes, and in her expression he can hear the words as clear as if she’d spoken them out loud. 

_I could have hurt you. _

He shakes his head. 

“But you didn’t.” He gives her a soft smile. “You remembered me.” He returns his hand to her cheek, brushing his thumb back and forth against her skin. “You remembered who you are.” 

She blinks back tears, her eyes wide and sorrowful. 

_And who am I? _

He smiles at her. 

“You’re Kimiko, mon coeur.” He cups her face in his hand. “You lived by the ocean once -- a place where palm trees stood in front of the moon at night. Your favorite color is a shade of orange like the sunset, and you like the combination of citrus and chocolate.” He trails his fingertips along the edge of her hairline. “You could’ve chosen to leave, but instead you stayed. You could’ve been a weapon, but instead you chose to be a protector.” He brushes the back of his fingers along the ridge of her brows and down the slope of her jaw. “You are a miracle who saved my life.” 

There are tears in her eyes still, but not -- he thinks -- from shame or sorrow. 

She moves a hand out from under her and presses her palm against his cheek. 

_And you? _

He gives her a small smile. 

“I am from near the ocean too, mon coeur.” He takes a deep breath, trying to remember the scent of salt in the air. “No palm trees, though, only rocks.” He settles into the floor, threading his fingers through Kimiko’s hair. “My favorite color is the purple of the sky right before it turns to night, and I never eat chocolate mixed with marshmallows because it reminds me of mon père.” She lifts her hand and dots her fingertips across the edges of his forehead, mimicking the path his own fingers took with her. “The first thing I did when I was finally free of him was cook my own meal. To cook -- it reminds me that I am free.” He smiles at her. “I think if I was not doing this, I would be a chef.” He shifts his head so that his lips are against the open palm of her hand, gently pressing them against her skin. “But if I was not doing this, then I would not have met you. And my life could not have been saved the way you have saved it.” 

* * *

He can’t picture the house he grew up in any more or the color of his mother’s eyes. He doesn’t think he’ll ever really remember what home smelled like or the tune of the lullaby his mother would sing to him before he fell asleep. 

But it doesn’t hurt like it used to. 

Because now when he thinks of home, what he thinks of is this: 

Kimiko’s smile as she bites into a chocolate lime; the way her mouth turns up at the edges even before the candy touches her lips. How he can smell her strawberry scented shampoo in any one of his hoodies, and the way she leaves cherry flavored chapsticks in nearly every room of whatever shitty safehouse they’re staying in. 

He no longer wonders about the way back home, the shape and structure of it, how to fill the aching for it in his heart. 

Home is not lost any longer. There is no route to find, no aching hole in his heart to fill. 

There is him, and there is Kimiko, and there is peace amidst the chaos of what they do. 

It is all the home he needs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's talk about how soft these two are on tumblr//@fandammit.


End file.
